His meditations were interrupted by a ring at the bell:
"
Why, has the Abbé Plomb really come out in spite of the gale?"
It was indeed the priest that Madame Mesurat showed in.
"Oh," said he to Durtal, who lamented over the rain, "the weather will clear up all in good time; at any rate, as you had not put me off I was determined not to keep you waiting."
They sat chatting by the fire; and the room took the Abbé's fancy, no doubt, for he settled himself at his ease. He threw himself back in an arm-chair, tucking his hands into his cincture. And when, in answer to his question as to whether Durtal were not too dull at Chartres, the Parisian replied, "It seems to me that I live more slowly, and yet am not such a burthen to myself," the Abbé went on,—
"What you must feel painfully is the lack of intellectual society; you, who in Paris lived in the world of letters—how can you endure the atmosphere of this provincial town?"
Durtal laughed.
"The world of letters! No, Monsieur l'Abbé, I should not be likely to regret that, for I had given it up many years before I came to live here; and besides, I assure you it is impossible to be intimate with those train-bands of literature and remain decent. A man must choose—them or honest folks; slander or silence; for their speciality is to eliminate every charitable idea, and above all to cure a man of friendship in the winking of an eye."
"Really?"